


After the game

by NathalieWeasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathalieWeasley/pseuds/NathalieWeasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy sits on the bench, back straight and knees crossed, utterly out of place in Oliver’s sweaty Quidditch locker room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the game

**Author's Note:**

> A quick drabble I wrote for a challenge over at on LJ. Unbeta'd. I don't speak any sort of Scots dialect, so thank you to [this site](http://scotlandwelcomesyou.com/scottish-sayings/) for Scottish slang terms.

It’s four in the bloody morning, and Oliver is _cold_. Why Laedo couldn’t have found the bloody snitch just a little bloody earlier is beyond him. He lowers himself to the bench – slowly, as to prevent his already sore muscles from complaining _more_. There’s no point; the second Oliver settles on the bench, the adrenaline from the game wears off, and his body turns into one gigantic, aching bruise. The groan slips out unconsciously. Oliver leans to the side and presses his head to the cold comfort of the metal bench. He needs to stretch, set an example for the others – how many times has he yelled at the team that their muscles will cramp up post-game? – but the bench feels _so_ good.

“Oliver.”

Another groan escapes. Whoever is there better have a bloody _concussion_ if they’re demanding Oliver be functional.

A hand slips into his hair. He can tell the person is attempting to be gentle, but the snarls and tangles from the snow – bloody _snow_ for eight hours – trap the fingers, and they pull harshly on the strands. Oliver winces.

“Bother…sorry, love.”

Oliver presses his hands to the bench and eases himself up. Percy sits on the bench, back straight and knees crossed, utterly out of place in Oliver’s sweaty Quidditch locker room. Oliver blinks.

“What are ye doing here?” 

Not exactly the best start to a conversation with your boyfriend, so Oliver tries again. “I mean, it’s bloody great to see ye.” Oliver accentuates the comment with a quick kiss. “But…ye _hate_ Quidditch.”

Percy reddens, freckles blending in with the colour spreading across his nose and cheeks. He raises a hand to his face and pushes his glasses further up his nose. When he speaks, the words are directed somewhere to Oliver’s left.

“I assumed, as we had started dating, that I would attend your matches as a sign of moral support.”

While not doing much against the lingering cold Oliver’s body feels from the match, his heart fills with warmth at the statement. He leans forward and turns Percy’s face toward his own with one hand. Percy shivers from the touch, Oliver hopes, not from the coldness of his hands.

“I dinnae need a big display to show me ye care, Perce. I _know_ ye do. But…thank ye.” Oliver leans forward and presses his lips once more to Percy’s, lingering longer, trying to show his appreciation in kiss form. After a minute or so, Percy pulls back. His glasses are askew again, and his lips are slightly swollen. Oliver thinks he looks absolutely perfect.

Percy smiles, and Oliver feels the remains of the chill melt away. “I’m glad.”

He stands and offers a hand out. “Can we go now? A hot shower and a back massage will do you wonders.” There is a glimmer in his eyes that Oliver really, really wants to know more about.

He clambers off the bench, muscles _screaming_ at being put through such hard work and places his hand in Percy’s.

“That sounds bloody _perfect_.”


End file.
